


After Action

by Huggle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese needs to get someplace safe and quiet so he can patch himself up.  Finch agrees; Reese just hadn't expected Finch to take charge of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Action

**Author's Note:**

> Post Ep 1.08 - written for a meme of interest prompt where Fusco reports to Finch about finding Reese tied up post torture, prompting Finch to take care of him. (Needless to say, but POI and its characters aren't mine).

The sirens were coming closer.

Reese pushed himself off the bench, and holstered his gun. He took the path that slanted upwards to the road, and came out to stand beneath a streetlight. From here, he had two options. The first was to try and hail a cab – the quickest way of leaving the area, but also the riskiest. Later, the police would canvass the cab companies as SOP. 

He was too tired, too hurt, not to be memorable tonight. 

The second was walking; it was late, but not so late that the streets were deserted. He could manage to lose himself among dog walkers, theatre goers, people who just needed to wind down with a stroll before they turned in for the night. It would be easier in one way, harder in another; he would have to walk clean out of the area, maybe even keep going until he reached somewhere far enough away where he could book a room for the night.

With exhaustion and the deep thudding pain in his arm and shoulder, he wasn’t sure he had that in him.

But he would have to find it.

He reached the end of the street when he paused, watching the sleek black car pull in across from him. 

Finch undid his seat belt and got out. He came around the vehicle, and opened the passenger door.

“We should probably leave before we have to give witness statements to the police,” Finch said. “Yours, I imagine, would be quite interesting. In a chilling fashion.”

Reese got in, gritted his teeth against the flare of pain along the nerves in his arm, and wondered how Finch knew.

“Fusco?” he asked, finally, as Finch wove the car smartly in and out of traffic. It was the only thing that made sense.

Finch’s silence was confirmation. 

“You can drop me at the next corner, Finch. I’ll be fine from there.”

The car didn’t stop. Reese stared at him.

“I hardly think so,” Finch said, his tone sharp and yet still full of dismay. “I should have heard from you what happened, not Detective Fusco.”

Ten minutes later, Finch had parked outside of a brownstone. He got out, waited until Reese followed, and then led him to the second floor. Reese kept pace with Finch as he tackled the stairs; he wondered again why Finch would choose a property with access problematic to his condition. 

The other apartment he knew Finch used, across the river, was on the fourth floor. No elevator there either.

He was beginning to think that Finch might be some kind of masochist.

Finch took a key out of his jacket pocket and opened the door. He went to go in first; Reese, ignoring the huff of protest it earned him, stepped around him and drew his gun. He cleared the apartment quickly but thoroughly, while Finch locked the door behind them and stood in the middle of the living room watching him.

“I would be very surprised if anyone knew we were here, Mr Reese. Or even where here is. Why don’t you take off your jacket and shirt while I fetch the first aid kit.”

He hobbled away before John could either protest or comply; of course, Finch expected him to go along. It had been in the way he was off before he’d even finished speaking. 

Deciding co-operation would be less hassle than an argument, Reese shrugged carefully out of his overcoat and suit jacket. Undoing the buttons on his shirt one handed was more of a challenge, but he was almost done by the time Finch returned.

He didn’t offer to help, just set the kit down and opened it up while Reese finished and slid out of the shirt. That left his undershirt, but that was going to take an additional effort.

Finch looked up, and he drew in a sharp breath when he saw Reese’s arm.

Reese didn’t need to look down to see how bad it was. He could feel it.

“I think you should sit down,” Finch said. “How long did he....” He trailed off, shook his head as if the answer was actually something he’d prefer not to hear.

Reese spared him the knowledge and sat down on the sofa. Finch took a pair of scissors from the first aid kit and carefully cut the sleeve of Reese’s undershirt up to the neckline. He parted the material and was a little more ready for the damage he saw.

He put the scissors away and then settled next to Reese and tore open an antiseptic wipe. He held Reese’s arm carefully with one hand, and used the other to clean up the bloody trails that marked his skin.

“I take it we don’t have to worry about any drug or poison being in your system because of the needles? He appeared knowledgeable in their use.”

Reese shook his head. “I doubt it. We’d both know about them by now.” He tensed as Finch applied too much pressure below his elbow, the feeling like a live wire being pressed against his skin, where one needle had been inserted particularly deep.

Finch paused, and then threw the wipe into the trash. Reese watched him get up and go over to a black box about the same size as the first aid kit. He took out an orange pill bottle and brought it over with a glass of water.

“I apologise,” he offered. “Some pain relief probably should have been the first thing we attended to.”

Reese took the bottle from him, checked the name and dosage, and nodded. Finch shook out two of the pills and gave them to him with the water. Reese swallowed them down. It would take a while before they had any effect, but he’d probably be grateful for them later all the same.

Finch sat back down and stared from the contents of the first aid kit to Reese’s arm. “I’m not entirely sure there’s anything in here that will help very much, Mr. Reese.”

He already knew as much. The pain would go away in time; until then he just had to ride it out. 

There were a couple of wider holes, almost tears, in his shoulder where the needles had stuck – they were still dribbling blood. Reese took a sterile dressing from the kit and used his teeth to tear open the wrapper. He pressed it down over them, which made them ache more.

Finch was looking at him. “This is, I suppose, where I should tell you it wasn’t your fault.”

His words stung a little. “I know that it was,” he snapped. “I got careless. I shouldn’t have gotten close enough for him to knock me out.”

Finch frowned. “I should tell you because it _wasn’t_. You took every possible precaution, Mr Reese. But against someone so bitter, so determined.... That can be difficult to counter.”

 _I could have countered it by shooting him the minute I saw him_ , Reese thought, but Finch had been exposed to enough for one night, and so said nothing.

 

Finch nudged Reese’s hand away from his shoulder, and removed the dressing. “The bleeding’s stopped. I think some sleep would be a good idea.”

Reese wasn’t about to disagree. He stared down at his shirt and then abandoned any idea of trying to put it back on, blood stained as it was. Even the weight of his jacket on his skin would be painful enough just now. All the same, he couldn’t go out in just a torn undershirt. 

He wasn’t expecting Finch to take hold of the jacket before he could pick it up and pointedly put it aside out of his reach.

“There are bedrooms here, Mr. Reese. If I thought a band aid was all you needed, I would have stopped at an all night pharmacy. I’ll show you through.”

Reese followed, a little surprised, but he shook it off. “Finch,” he started.

Finch stopped and turned around to look back at him. “Yes, Mr Reese?” 

It was all there, in his face, his tone. He expected Reese to be difficult about this and was steeling himself against it.

“Thanks,” Reese said.

Finch didn’t answer, but he did push open the next door he came to. It was a small, plain room, but the bed was made and it looked like heaven.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Finch said, and left him alone.

Reese put his gun on the bedside table, shoved back the covers and carefully got in. It had been a while since anybody had taken care of him to this degree; he told himself it wasn’t something he should get used to, but one night wouldn’t hurt.

And if it reassured Finch that his asset wasn’t about to die on him then it was another reason to stay.


End file.
